There I was, on the starting line of the Hotter 'N Hell Hundred. Okay, it's not really a starting line. It's more like a starting blob, spread out over a rough mile or two of Scott Street in downtown Wichita Falls, Texas. It was a seething mass of people and machinery - bicycles and the people who love them, in every possible combination of color, style, and choice of mount. I saw aluminum, carbon, steel; I saw Bianchi, Cannondale, Schwinn; I saw road bikes, mountain bikes, even a unicycle; I saw clipless, toe clips, no clips; I saw biker guys, biker gals, biker kids; "I see England, I see France, I see somebody's underpants" (no, really - I think it was part of a costume).

All in all, in two glances (one forward, one back) my gaze took in the sight of 8,000 utterly insane individuals, surrounding me in a wave of zealotry that would make any banana-republic dictator proud. No two of us were alike, save in one respect - we all shared the horrible mass psychosis that 100 miles in 100-degree temperatures is 100% fun.
What follows is a cyclist's equivalent of the after-vacation slide show that your friend's parents always made you sit and watch. It's a random sampling of the thoughts and impressions gained from my first-ever century ride. This is an act of pure selfishness - I want to get this down on paper in the forlorn hope that someone out there will pin a ribbon on it and label it "diverting". Those of you that have ridden the HHH may say "been there, done that," in which case I suggest you stop reading and go ride your bike.

Most importantly, this is a letter of thanks to a good friend who, when I complained about my weight and blood pressure problems, took me out for a bike ride.

Disclaimer for the cartographers - times, distances, and locations are not guaranteed to be accurate. Fatigue, heat, and pain have deleterious effects on my memory, and that's just when I'm cooking dinner.

Starting Line, 7:30 am

It was more like a starting blob… well, you get the idea.

I was a rookie Oklahoman lost in the craziness of Texas. Life was a wild splash of color and Lycra, on all sides of me, as far as I could see. In my nine short months of cycling, I have never seen such a collection in one place. Yes, the variety was impressive, but it was more than that - it was the huge, mind-numbing *number* of cyclists that caused me to gape in astonishment. We have nothing in Oklahoma that compares to it. I looked like a rube, standing there with my jawbone scraping the still-cool pavement.

My ride buddies, Fred Holland and Jerry Cuda, were getting huge kicks out of my reaction. Let them laugh! I didn't care - this was BIG TIME, BABY, and I was a part of it. The goosebumps could be seen through my Official Postal Service Team Jersey (tm). In truth, I knew the veterans were laughing with me, not at me. If they vicariously relived their first HHH ride by watching me, then I can say I did something nice for someone.

My wife, another beginning cyclist of merit, once commented on the difference in ride banter between women and men. The women, she said, will discuss the same kinds of things that they would over a nice lunch - family, vacation plans, and how beautiful the lake looks this morning. The guys? "All they want to talk about is equipment."

So it was with Fred and Jerry. Listening them talk to the guys around them, I learned more about lugs, butted tubing, and Colnagos in five minutes than I could have gleaned from any sales brochure. For my own part, I limited my comments to admiring remarks about paint schemes, as I still get "cog" and "chainring" confused. The conversations carried with them an atmosphere that was earthy and seedy, almost as if I were listening to teenage boys at football practice discussing the cheerleaders. Mind you, now - MY bike is a LADY.

And then it came, the moment I had been waiting for, the culmination of nine months of pain, sweat, and broken cleat pieces embedded in the living room carpet. An announcer counted down to zero, someone set off a huge cannon (Texas' version of the starter pistol) and off we went!

Well, sort of. I think by now I've managed to convey just how huge this thing was. If anyone was moving, they weren't anywhere within 200 feet of me. Me and the other rookies sat there, one foot clipped and one foot grounded, twitching like bird dogs on leash. And we sat there. And sat there. And whined because our unclipped leg wasn't feeling so fresh anymore.

8,000 people take a long time to get moving.

Mile 10 - Going Postal

At least, I think it was the Postal Service rest stop. There was a Post Office nearby, and the tents were right next to it. Thanks to our favorite American, Lance Armstrong, I cannot see a mail truck without whooping and hollering like a Dallas Cowboys fan (in the good old days, anyway), so my mind naturally made the connection between the mail people and the rest stop people.

Except that I dared not stop. I was in the middle of the biggest bunch of moving objects that I had ever seen in my 35 years on God's Earth. This includes the children's Vacation Bible School from last year. I was terrified, with a capital "T", and trying my best to smile and convince everyone that the rookie on the green Bianchi wasn't going to do something stupid like crossing three lanes just to get to a rest stop.

The experience was incredible to the tenth power. I was cruising along at 20 - 25 miles an hour in a solid mass of centripetal force. Fred, Jerry and I were somewhat faster than those around us, so we were carefully picking our way forward. Around this mountain biker; around that kid on the 30-year old "ten-speed"; very, very, VERY carefully around the surfer dude with the boom box strapped to his rear rack, blaring out a Def Leppard tune for anyone that cared (or not) to hear. Last time I heard that song, "Pour Some Sugar On Me" I was watching a friend compete in a body-building contest. From watcher to do-er - what a transition!

At one point, Fred came up alongside and thanked me, very sincerely, for being "such a smooth and steady rider." Fred has been my mentor in my nine-month quest for speed - he's taught me pack riding etiquette, pedaling technique, and the evils of aluminum frames. A compliment from him was high praise, but I wondered why he chose that moment to share it, bundled as we were in that insane tram ride through Texan suburbia. Then, the two teenagers we'd been following abruptly changed their line and cut sharply across my bow, and all my training in bumping and avoidance riding paid off - I stayed off my brakes, smoothly dodged without disrupting the pack, and nobody got hurt. However, if looks could kill, I would have made the papers for sure.

I decided to forget about rest stops I didn't need and to concentrate on the task at hand. I had already passed more flats and crashes than I'd seen in the Redbud, Great Tulsa, SCAT, LibertyFest, and Spin Your Wheels rides combined - I was bound and determined to keep my spare tube and tools moldering in my seatbag.

Mile 20 - The Pebbles and Bam-Bam Show

My buds and I had this plan. You should always have a plan, just like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, only without the dramatic jump down the waterfall. Our plan was to go 50 miles before stopping, so we could pound out some distance before the heat of the day made its appearance.

Our plan did not count on the Flintstones.

The rest stops at HHH like to center on a theme. One of them had five dancing "I Dream Of Jeannie" genies; another one was sponsored by the restaurant chain "Carl's Junior" and had the requisite Guy in the Star Suit (a sight which several riders probably blamed on heat exhaustion).

The mile 20 rest stop had a theme a la Bedrock, and it was CROWDED. There must have been at least 300 cyclists at the site itself, another 100 to 200 transitioning in and out, and the rest of us threading the needle that was the open roadway. No matter which group you aimed for, you didn't ride past this rest stop - you got off and walked. Hundreds of hungry, thirsty, and continence-challenged cyclists would not be denied, and Wilma and Betty were servin' up the service.

Fred and Jerry had dropped me about five miles back (actually, I dropped off the back of their group - it sounds better the other way), but they were gracious enough to wait for me at the rest stop. We immediately set out, after negotiating our way past the Bronto-burgers and Saber-Tooth cookies.

What really amazed me was that I was still in a pack of riders. Not a line, not a group, but a PACK, at least 50 strong. Never before had I seen such a large group of riders still together after 20 miles - back home, the starting pack tends to disintegrate after the first 5 miles. I looked forward and backward and saw a river of bike helmets interspersed with occasional glances of pavement. I imagined that Jacques Cousteau would have been moved to film a documentary about the great migration of the wheeled velocipedes.

Fred and Jerry soon dropped me again, but I didn't let it worry me - I had the whole freakin' world to keep me company!

Mile 30 - It's A Small World After All

Things were starting to thin out a bit - I could occasionally let my line wobble without inducing curses and unsolicited comments about my lineage. I was feeling good - no pain, plenty of air, and the breeze was still relatively cool. Unfortunately, amidst all the nature of the Texas countryside, Nature herself was calling. Loudly.

I was wearing one of those hydration pack things, which until now I had used primarily to keep my back cool. Fred and Jerry had both hammered into me the importance of staying hydrated. Even my wife had contributed an IV story she'd heard from one of the OBS members. Okay, folks, I can take a hint. I'll drink the water, even if I am this close to Mexico.

I've read all kinds of tips on keeping hydrated. Drink before you get thirsty, one book said. Another missive advised me to drink every time the drink tube bumped my arm. When you see someone else drink, take a sip yourself. When you see a red bike, drink. If you're not drinking, drink!

Great tips, eh? So, I decided to follow them. All of them. In fact, I did everything I could to drain my water bladder in an unreasonable length of time. Unfortunately, draining one bladder required filling another, and soon my kidneys were ready to strike for better working conditions. So much for the "no stop until mile 50" plan.

Fortunately, my ride buds had also reached the same point of difficulty as I, and I found them waiting for me at the 30-mile rest stop. No discernible theme at this stop - just good old "get off and eat, drink, be merry, get out." We walked over to the bathroom line and I did my best impression of crossing my legs without appearing to cross my legs, which is darned uncomfortable in Lycra.

What to my wondering eyes should appear, but two of my favorite riders from my club, the Oklahoma Bicycle Society. This was also the first HHH for Sue Fortunato and Paula Kirkpatrick, and they looked like they were having as much fun as I was. I made the same old lame comment of "small world, eh?" that I always make at times like that, with my hindbrain wondering why I can 't come up with something that sounds slightly less like a Las Vegas lounge singer. But it was pretty cool, finding two people that I know among 7,995 people that I don't know. It's a nice feeling to be recognized by friends when you're away from home.

Bathroom break completed, I went over to the support tent and received my first sample of Texas hospitality, HHH style. I felt like a customer in the world's greatest all-u-can-eat restaurant (as long as all you want is bananas, oranges, water, and Powerade). I didn't have to go to them - they came to ME. They poured ice cold water in my backpack, shoved a cup of diluted Powerade in my hands, and gave me picks of banana and orange off a tray. It was friendly, efficient, and quick, without making me feel rushed. Their smiles and actions screamed out "You are our guest! Thanks for coming!"

I've not seen this kind of unabashed hospitality since the days of the Oklahoma City Bombing, when volunteers supplied the rescue workers. I realize that's a bit of a grim comparison, but that's the only way I know to describe it. The service at HHH rest stops is light years ahead of anything that Denny's management could ever dream of.

Full in heart and empty in bladder (the internal one, anyway), we remounted and soldiered on down the highway.

Mile 40: Local Yokel

The locals are absolutely nuts.

I have a lot of nerve saying that. After all, I'm the idiot riding in 100 degree heat on a vehicle that can only go 30 mph if I burn out the motor, with nothing but a layer of CoolMax and a smile between me and the road rash. All they're doing is watching me.

The spectators were everywhere - on the curbsides, in front of shops, sitting in chaise lounges on the front porches. I heard one of them remark that, in past years, they have stood and watched an unbroken line of passing riders for as much as FIVE HOURS. My view, by comparison, was somewhat static, comprised mainly of those people riding at my pace, not one of them with an interesting design on their jersey. Even underwear guy had dropped back.

What struck me as most unusual was the enthusiasm of the watchers. They clapped, they cheered, they swung cowbells, and one brilliant young child offered squirts from a water bottle to interested passers-by. They waved and hollered "Howdy!" (that's Texan for "Good morning, old chap!") and "Y' all come back now!" (that's Texan for "Thanks for the tax money!"). Some of them even set up impromptu rest stops of their own.

In case you haven't figured it out, I'm not the fastest guy that ever dropped off of a paceline. I started the HHH in the midfield of the 100-mile group and had been making a steady run for the back of the pack ever since. By the time the spectators saw me, I'm sure they had seen 2000-3000 others before. Yet they were STILL clapping!

I don't know, maybe they clapped in shifts or something. Maybe the guy with the cowbell was a robot. Whatever the cause, the end result was that I felt special - very special.

At one point, I commented to Jerry that the locals must not have had this much fun since Clem bought the bug zapper. I immediately regretted the comment - the people don't deserve that kind of condescension from me, or from anyone. They were glad to see me, and it didn't matter if it was for the show I was giving or the money I was pouring into the local tax base. They could have been inside watching TV in air-conditioned comfort, but instead they chose to sit in the sun and cheer me on.

No, sir, they didn't deserve the comment at all. Cut my tongue out if I ever say something so uncharitable again in my life.

But the locals are still crazy, I tell you. One of them had rolled a huge hay bale out to the street corner and had propped up a wrecked bike, front wheel buried in the end of the bale. Also buried in the hay, sticking out at an uncomfortable angle, were two legs wearing bike shorts. Ouch.

Every cyclist that passed laughed out loud. I hope the artist was within earshot - he would have been well repaid for his work.

Mile 50: That Was a Nice Warmup! Now, Let's Ride!

Okay, now I was starting to feel it. Just a little twinge in the legs; maybe the breathing didn't recover immediately after that hill; maybe my hands were just a teensy bit numb.

The temperature was definitely over 100 degrees by now. The wind didn't feel cool anymore, although I thanked God that there was a crosswind or tailwind for most of the ride. A smarter part of me said that I'll be paying for that tailwind later, but all the stupid parts of me beat the smarter part into silence. Nobody likes a know-it-all.

Fred and Jerry had the good grace to look somewhat tired when we regrouped at the 50-mile rest stop. This stop was placed in the middle of some sort of agricultural field. I say "some sort of" because local drought conditions have pounded the territory into something resembling Death Valley.

Despite the local conditions, the water and ice were in incredibly plentiful supply. I was even more amazed that the local volunteers were so willing to stand the heat, sitting in a dying field, handing out precious water, just so I can have a nice bike ride. As Yakov Smirnoff would say, "What a country!" Just for the record, I can't stand Yakov Smirnoff, and his vodka is overpriced anyway.

You ever seen Powerade mixed up by the 55-gallon drum? I have. It's going on my list of "Practical Things To Do with a 55-Gallon Drum", right after the one marked "Keep The Dead Lawnmower Out of Sight."

As we clipped in and started down the second half of our grand adventure, I decided that a bit of "joie de vivre" was in order. I turned to Fred and said, "Okay, that was the long 50 miles. You ready for the short 50 mile ride?"

Some poor soul on a mountain bike next to us panted, "What, is the second half shorter?"

Note to self: "Joie de Vivre" means "Things not to say to a group of people suffering from heat exhaustion."

Mile 60: Heat and Stupid Decisions

Confession is good for the soul, sayeth the Lord. I'll get this off my chest and stop being so serious.

My friend, Fred, was standing at the roadside, back wheel flat on one side. I stopped and offer to help, but as we all know, flat changing is a one-man job, and is best done without onlookers offering "advice". I sat with him for a while, watching him work, making small talk, none of which involved my preferred techniques for changing a tube.

Suddenly, my legs started saying to me, "Joe, if you don't start riding right now, we're going to tighten up so hard that you'll need a torque wrench to loosen us again." I was stiffening up something fierce.

Jerry had been in front of Fred when the flat hit, so he was up ahead in parts unknown. I presumed he was waiting two miles ahead at the 60-mile rest stop wondering what the heck happened to us. I could imagine his legs tightening up, just like mine, and his urge to leave growing stronger by the minute, just like mine.

Fred was beginning to seat his tire and was about 100 strokes of the pump away from action. It was then that the "stupids" struck me. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the impending leg cramps. Maybe it was my inexperience.

Whatever the cause, I suggested that I ride ahead to reassure Jerry that we were still alive, and together we would wait for him at the 60 mile rest stop. For whatever reason, Fred agreed, and I pedaled down the road.

Maybe, just maybe, I'm a selfish bastard who won't wait for one of his best friends to finish changing his flat.

You can probably see what happened, especially if you've ridden this before. I went to the rest stop. No Jerry. I waited. No Fred. I did the usual rest stop stuff - bathroom, water fill, Powerade, banana. No Jerry. No Fred. And at least a thousand other people that were not my riding buddies. I realized the futility of trying to find two fellow crazies when standing inside the asylum.

I felt like an absolute heel. Whatever my reasoning, I just separated the three of us, with 40 miles left to be conquered. Our desire to stick together wasn't for safety; it wasn't for speed; it wasn't for tactics. It was to have a good ride together as friends. Too bad I'm an ignorant yutz.

You can spray Bactine and slap a gauze patch on road rash. But you can't patch that yawning ache in your stomach that says, "You screwed up, bucko!"

Now I'm going to have to come back next year, if for no other reason than to carry a couple of extra tubes just for Fred.

Mile 70: Principles of Convection Oven Operation

It was hot! You could probably fry an egg on the pavement, except if I did have an egg, I would have probably cracked it over my head in a vain attempt to cool off.

The heat wasn't the only point of contention I had with Mother Nature. Somewhere in the great Weather Center in the sky, someone had decided to turn on the wind machine. It howled out of the south in a gusting 10 to 15 miles per hour. I'm guessing, actually. My legs were voting for 20 mph with a futures option for 25. It was a hot wind, which meant that any cooling factor was nonexistent.

Before the ride, Fred had convinced me to carry a water bottle. I couldn't figure out why - my hydro pack carried the equivalent of two bottles, and was insulated to boot. A bottle would heat up unbearably in just ten miles.

He told me why I should carry it. I was skeptical, but then again I was also skeptical about clipless pedals and 90 degree approaches at railroad crossings, and Fred turned out to be right about those. So, I dutifully carried the water bottle and refilled it with ice water at every stop.

Now, here I was, hot, getting hotter, fighting the wind, unable to keep up with the pacelines passing me, and still seven miles away from a rest stop. It was time to test Fred's advice. I took the bottle out of the holder, opened the top, carefully inserted it into one of the vent openings of my helmet, and squeezed.

Oh shock! Oh joy! Oh rapture! Oh give the man who invented the ice cube the Nobel Prize for Science, Peace, and whatever else they give it for! It' s like someone found the thermostat in my head and notched the dial down to "50". The Wrigley people only WISH their gum tasted that cool! I did it again, and deliciously cold water ran off my face and over my glasses.

Normally, I'm a freak about spots on my glasses. I see a spot, and my goal in life for the next minute is the meticulous elimination of any extraneous material on either lens. It is especially disconcerting to my wife when I remove my glasses to wipe them on my shirt while driving down the freeway.

The spots that formed today weren't your ordinary spots - these spots had SALT in them. Ick! Pass the Windex! However, my body was in ecstasy from the instant relief and I found that I didn't care about the darn spots anymore! Give me spots that would scare off a box of Cascade, just COOL ME OFF!

Sobering thought ahead. As we passed a sign announcing our entrance into Clay County, I spotted a sign affixed to a tractor in yet another blasted heath of a farming field. It stated, "Keep the HHH in Wichita Falls!" I thought, what a nice sentiment! They don't want some other city stealing their bike race!

Then, immediately after that sign, I saw something else that told me all is not well in the land of Oz. It's one of those highway warning signs with a bike on it, warning drivers to watch for cyclists. Someone had placed a black stripe of electrical tape across the sign. It's the universal "no" symbol. Two and two became four in my head - the farmer wants to keep the HHH in Wichita Falls - OUT of Clay County.

Reality interrupts my fun at the most inopportune moments. I was once again reminded of my minority status on the highways and byways of America. Not everyone likes cycling. There are people out there that would knock me over with their bumpers and side mirrors if their personal lawyers were any better at their jobs. I am the Lycra-clad freak in their ordered, internally-combustioned, 65 mph world.

Sobriety is overrated, especially when you're fighting the wind on mile 70. I grimly set my head and pressed on, accompanied by a group of thirty other silent riders, all of us determined not to let Farmer Bigot ruin our day.

Mile 80: Water is Your Friend

At this rest stop, I dropped my bike. No, I mean DROPPED! It hit the ground, loudly, fortunately on the non-derailleur side, and five seconds passed before I realized what a horrible thing I just did. You don't treat a lady like that. Time for a serious rest, I told myself.

Until this point, I had resisted the idea of sitting down on anything except the bike, with the sole exception of the grass during the unfortunate flat-tire event with Fred. In my limited ride experience, sitting down was a like hot check that comes back with service charges - sooner or later, I have to get up, and getting up on tired legs HURTS! Better not to sit down than have to contend with that.

To heck with it, I said. I was beat senseless, and the unusual abuse I had just heaped on my trusty mount convinced me that a sit-down was definitely in order. I proceeded to locate a chair and planted my keester, vowing not to move for at least ten minutes. It was then that I discovered the joy of drip pipes.

Okay, maybe they aren't called drip pipes. Call them misters. Call them irrigation lines. Personally, if I ever saw these pipes anywhere else, I'd call a plumber. They were stretched across the trees around me, and holes placed every inch sprayed drops of water to the ground below. Ground upon which I was now worshipping the water gods.

After a few shameless minutes under the waterfall, I got back up, ignoring the complaints from my legs for the umpteenth time, and refilled my water containers. The girl pouring the water looked a bit tired, so I thought I'd make one of my classic textbook quips to cheer her day. I smiled and said, "So, on a day like today, do you get a lot of guys proposing marriage?"

She rolled her eyes and gave me a look and said, "Yes." Her look said much more than "Yes." It said, "Yes, I have, thank you very much, at least twenty or thirty times an hour, and some of them don't even ask the question but just go ahead to the proposing marriage part, and I'm afraid that one or two of them were really serious, and I'll thank you to shut up and go away."

Another note to self: Heat and exertion impairs both your judgment and your sense of humor. Shut up and ride.

If you ever do the Hotter N Hell, I highly suggest that you give the outdoor shower a try. It's not really a shower per se - it's actually a kid with a garden hose with a sprayer on the end. You stand still and they spray you, all over, until your clothes are soaked. The sensation is indescribable. It's like the water bottle thing in triplicate, carbons included. You'll make sounds that you normally would never make in public, so make sure you turn off all recording devices first.

It was around about this point that I ran into Sue Fortunato and another OBS 'er, Craig Whitacre. Of course, I didn't call him "Craig." I just said "Hey! Hi!"

Want to know why? It was because, despite the fact that I've ridden with him at least two to three times every month since May, I couldn't remember his name. I stink at remembering names. I'm the guy at parties who squints at all the nametags. He's a really nice guy, we talk on our rides all the time, and I couldn't recall his name even if God himself was requiring it as payment for services rendered. All I could remember was that his son was named Brent, but you don't go around saying, "Hi, Brent's dad! How's things?"

But this was my day for embarrassing screwups, so I swallowed what little pride I had left and admitted I couldn't remember his name. He took it well - the heat was probably messing with his head, too. I don't know if he was touched by my display of raw honesty or just thought I would be funny to keep around, but he asked if I wanted to ride with him and Sue to the end.

I need to ask people their names more often.

Mile 90: Powerade of the Gods

Let me tell you something about Powerade. I hate the stuff. Gatorade, too. Don't even get me started about All-Sport. The only sport drink I can stand is something that Amway makes called Strive, and it's so expensive that I can't bear the thought of wasting it away in something as primitive as sweating.

But when you've biked 90 miles in the heat, Powerade is nectar, ambrosia, and all those other Greek mythology things combined.

I made it a point to drink at least one cup of Powerade at every stop. Put that salt back, I would say to myself. Balance those electrolytes. Replenish those minerals. And be sure to drink, drink, drink that water! I 'm not going to get dehydrated! No way!

Pride goeth before a fall. Around mile 85 I started feeling slightly dizzy, my nose, lips and hands were tingling, and my stomach was ever so slightly nauseous. In my exhausted state, it was two more miles before I realized what was happening. Heat exhaustion, next exit. Do something, Joe.

I croaked something to Sue about stopping at the next rest station for some medical attention and not to wait up for me. I registered that she said something sympathetic, but I can't tell you what it was - my brain was too fried to store much more than pain sensations. I was pouring water on my head every minute or so, and my pedal stroke was shot to hell - I was coasting as much as pedaling.

About a mile before the rest stop, a family had set up an above-ground pool in their front yard, and about 20 kids were having a rousing water fight amidst much laughter and splashing. We all rode by, gritting our teeth and trying to ignore the delicious sound of deep-end cannonballs. Kids, it may have been unintentional, but your parents are downright sadistic.

Finally, the rest stop. The next few minutes were a jumbled impression of sound, noise, and color, which were fortunately not from me vomiting. Yes, I really wanted to toss my cookies, but I made it to the medical tent and decided that throwing up would be bad form. I promptly laid down on a cot, although collapsed would be a better verb. The cot's middle legs unexpectedly folded under me, leaving my head and feet sticking uncomfortably into the air. I was too tired to concern myself with being symmetrically horizontal and proceeded to enjoy my off-kilter laydown.

I think the fact that I didn't care about my unusual state of repose alerted the nurses to something out of the ordinary. Suddenly, I was surrounded by blood pressure cuffs, clipboards with "Don't Sue Me" disclaimers attached, and I would swear to God that Florence Nightingale put ice cold towels on my forehead, neck, and legs.

I didn't care about the ride; I didn't care about my bike. All I cared about were those ice cold towels. I would have paid money to keep those towels - I had $20 on me to prove it. They told me that my blood pressure was 110 over 80, which was far enough below my normal range to warrant keeping me there for at least another ten minutes. Drink water. Drink water. Drink water.

Before too much longer, I regained enough sense to look around me. I saw three guys with IV bags over their cots. One woman being taken away in a gurney. Four other walking dead in the corner waiting for the SAG wagon to take them home. Several of the others, like me, were wearing their Official Postal Service Team Jerseys. Not a good showing, Lance. Sorry, my man.

In looking around, I realized that if I didn't shape up here real quick, I was in danger of losing my bid to take that 100-mile pin. I didn't come all this way, suffer all this pain, kill all these brain cells, just to have some nurse pronounce me dead and force me to pack it in 10 miles short. No freakin' way!

So, I sat up. It's a perfectly normal maneuver, one I've practiced hundreds of times. It was the hardest thing I'd done all day.

I won't say that I lied to the nurse to get out of there. After all, she didn't ask me if I was okay. She asked me if the symptoms were gone - the tingling, the nausea, the dizziness. They were gone, and I told her so. I did not tell her that I felt like Ricky Ricardo had done the flamenco on my back - in football cleats, no less. What the kind nurse did not know would not hurt her. She pronounced me fit (sort of) and went away to save someone else's life.

I wandered over to the spray kid for a shower - just for luck, mind you, and saw Craig and Sue taking advantage of the same thing. Whatever was the act of providence that held them up, I was thankful for it. I needed someone else as crazy as me if I were to finish this.

Craig asked me, "Are you ready for this?" I drawled, "Let's do it," in what I hoped was my best Clint Eastwood voice.

In retrospect, I probably sounded more like George Burns.

100 miles: 'Nuff Said

Not much to tell you. We pedaled, we pushed, we rode our way in. There was another rest stop at 95 miles - I used it, eating the best cantaloupe I have ever had in my entire life.

You would think that after 90 miles, the last 10 miles would be easy. Sure, you're tired, but you've gone all that way, and you only have that last bit to cover. Right?

Wrongo, boy. Riding that last leg was the single most difficult thing I have ever done in my life, no kidding inserted. I didn't dare think about the end. I didn't dare think about the distance. I just kept turning the pedals. One more turn, Joe. One more. Yes, you want to quit, but do you want to quit right now? Maybe we'll quit after ten more turns of the pedals. Turn those pedals one more time and we'll see. Over and over and over.

Sue and Craig looked much fresher than I. They're better cyclists - most of their training miles were on longer distances, on the average, than my own. Don't get me wrong - I've done a lot of miles this year, 3000 so far, but unfortunately the distance rides are not as frequent as they should be. Since I bike commute to work, most of my base mileage comes in 10 to 20 mile increments, several times a week. I resolved that day to change my approach.

Sue and Craig are two of the most decent people I know. Unlike me, they would never leave a friend with a flat tire, even if he was almost pumped up. How do I know that? Because, in their rush to finish and celebrate, they didn't leave me behind. They dropped me three times, not because they accelerated, but because I decelerated, tuckering out on a hill or swerving from side to side in the face of a wind gust. Each time, they slowed down and waited for me to hook back on. Craig wanted us to finish together, side by side, just like the three prize jerseys in the Tour de France.

Those two are in my will.

The last kilometer was a dream of motion. The wind was at our backs. The street was clear and smooth. We were side by side, pulling a smooth 17 mph. Craig pointed at the finish banner, waving in the distance, and remarked on how great it looked. Sue was threatening to cry, that is, if she had any moisture left. I was screaming "That's right, we're bad! We're BAD!" to anyone who cared to hear.

And the volunteers, those gracious volunteers who devoted their entire day to making me happy, lined the road on left and right, hooting and hollering, clapping their hands, yelling "Well done!" and "Bravo!" and "Way to Go!" It was 4:30 pm, 9 hours after my start time. Those people must have been clapping and yelling for the last 5 hours. And there they were, clapping for me.

I don't know if Sue cried. I was too busy wiping a tear from my own eye. I then raised my hands and crossed the line in a posture that would have made any pro rider proud. I'm not going to describe what I was feeling - that's personal. Really.

100 AD (That's Latin for "100 miles, After Death)

I'm not fooled into thinking I turned in a fabulous performance. 9 hours is slow, and that's spelled S-L-O-W. I rode stupid much of the way, not drafting when I could have, drinking too much Powerade and not enough water, and not sitting my butt down at rest stops. But, as many mistakes as I may have made, I finished. It was 109 degrees at 4:30, the hottest HHH on record. That's a story for the grandkids, by gum.

Finishing a ride like this is a gift from God. It's an affirmation that the human mind can accomplish anything it wants - it just has to want it badly enough. It's a rite of passage - I'm no longer a poser on a road bike - I'm a Cyclist, with the degree to prove it. It's several hours of extreme silliness that, for just a moment, removes me from the ordinary and makes me extraordinary.

But, in the end, it was just a bike ride. World hunger wasn't solved. Cancer wasn't cured. All I did was take a nice ride in the country. But, like most things involving love, you can't justify or quantify your actions - you just go out and do it.

I love riding my bike. I love the feeling of power and control. I love the sensation of speed and the feel of the wind whipping through my hair. I love the new-found health that my body enjoys because of the bike. I love the feel of steel and rubber between my legs, moving by the strength of my muscle and sinew. I love the solid thwack of a gear change or the singing hum of a frame absorbing the bumps. I love the buzz of tires gliding across chip-sealed asphalt. I love to ride, man!

If you're feeling a little jaded about your love to ride, might I suggest a second honeymoon in Hell? You'll find out a lot about riding your bike, a lot about riding with others, and maybe along the way you'll find out more about yourself.

Oklahoma Bicycle Society: A Day in Hell
created by John Wente
last modified: February 18, 2007
URL: http://www.OklahomaBicycleSociety.com